Dead Squad: Spaced
by mandowriter
Summary: For a dead man, RC-1133 "Taler" is doing awfully well for himself. Adopted by a mandalorian bounty hunter, Kyr'am Galaar, he now travels the galaxy as a mercenary, taking contracts wherever they may be. Working for those who have no honour, and desperate to feel like part of a family again, Taler must find his way in a harsh and unforgiving galaxy.
1. Chapter 1

**Part 1**  
**Droid graveyard**

_Outer Rim_  
_Tion Hegemony sector_  
_Raxus system_  
_Raxus Prime_

Night-time had fallen on Raxus Prime. Though it was hard to tell the difference between night and day, the smoke and dust that filled the atmosphere of the planet shrouding the surface in an almost perpetual twilight. Dark, lightning filled storm clouds roiled menacingly across the sky, the thick, grey smoke of the smelting plants flowing upwards and swirling into the clouds in a single dark mass. The dry, static filled air crackled noisily, a bolt of lightning tearing across the sky, throwing the mounds of scrap metal into sharp relief.

The Ithorian tumbled down the side of the artificial hill, the slope made of droid parts that dug into his soft flesh as he rolled across them, cutting and grazing across his brown, leather-like skin. The slope dropped away from him in a vertical cliff, and he fell through the air, slamming hard into the dirt-covered floor, kicking a cloud of metallic dust into the evening sky, all the air driven out of his lungs, bones cracking all over his body.

He lay motionless in the gloom that surrounded him, the darkness of night broken by the beams of light that burst from the collectors that roamed the planet surface, scraping dead droids into their mechanical mouths, and crushing them between spiked rollers. The rumbling of the collectors echoed around him as they clawed relentlessly through the piles of scrap.

Straen Lok, thief, hired thug, and one-time smuggler, lay panting desperately in the dirt, his lungs burning as he inhaled the dust and toxic air. Across his chest was the strap of a small leather bag that he held tightly in his hand. Its contents was worth more credits than he could make in his entire life. It was because of this that he now found himself running for his life across this poisonous world.

"I know where you are, Ithlorian," a cold voice cried out across the sulphurous air. Straen Lok looked up sharply, his heart leaping into his throat, cutting off his laboured wheezing. The darkened piles of droid parts loomed over him like colossal black carnivores, silhouetted against the orange and red sky.

A flash of lightning tore across the clouds as he frantically searched the ridges around him for any sign of his pursuer. A thousand dead robotic faces looked back at him from the piles of scrap, their photoreceptors blazing momentarily as the lighting flared across the sky.

"You're making this a lot more difficult than it has to be, you know," the voice explained. "Why not come out and talk? I'm sure we can be reasonable about this." A clatter of metal to his right made Straen jump, snapping his head towards the sound. Bits of debris were sliding down the side of one of the slopes and as he looked up, he could see a dark figure racing down towards him. He felt the surge of panic flooding his body, and he scrambled to his feet, running as fast as his legs could carry him.

The path split into tow up ahead, and he could see the landing pad off to the left, a small freighter sitting on the platform, gasses hissing from its landing struts and cascading over the edge of the metal gantry. He made to run down the left hand path...

A plasma bolt tore through the air inches above his head, the heat making his skin blister as it grazed passed him, and slammed into a pile of metal beside him. Sparks erupted in his face, and the cloud of smoke blinded him. Instinctively, he jumped sideways, ducking beneath it, raising his hand to his face to shield it from the white hot sparks that rained down on him. The shock had forced him down the right hand path, and he found himself heading away from the landing pad.

"You can't leave just yet," the voice said calmly. "We still have a little business to deal with." Straen could feel his heart hammering in his chest, the sounds pulsing in his ears as the heavy footsteps of the shadowy figure crunched to the floor behind him. The pathway between the piles of scrap narrowed as it twisted and turned, weaving through the rust covered landscape. The path split again up ahead.

"Turn left, Mr Lok," the voice cried out. Another plasma bolt screamed through the air from somewhere high on the ridge and slammed into a droid chest plate that lay on the slope. It erupted in sparks and dust and forced Straen to take the left path. The dust lingered in his eyes, making them water, and he was momentarily blinded, fumbling his way along the path.

Something snagged around his ankle, tightening instantly, and he crashed to the floor, all the wind knocked from his lungs. The pile of scrap beside him began to shiver and as he struggled to roll onto his side, still wheezing painfully, he felt his leg being lifted. He stared up through tear-streaked eyes and watched as a garbage worm picked him up by the ankle and uncoiled itself, its milky-white scales dirtied by dust and hydraulic oil.

Straen clawed at the garbage worms tail as it tightened around his ankle, lifting him higher into the air, it's gaping maw opening beneath him. The bag he held around his shoulder began to slip, and it fell from him. He reached out desperately and felt his fingers clamp shut around the strap as it hung over the worms open mouth.

"Oh no you don't," a voice cried out. Straen wasn't sure, but it sounded different to the voice that had been taunting him. Bolts of energy tore through the gloom and slammed into the worms flank, shattering it's glass like scales. The creature groaned loudly, its grip on Straen's leg loosening. He fell to the floor, coughing painfully as a blur of white shot passed him and bowled into the worms side. He watched as the figure who had been chasing him clambered atop the creature and drew a pistol from their holster and began emptying plasma rounds into the creatures head. The worm let out a deafening, heart-stopping shriek and began to writhe uncontrollably, its whole body convulsing and wrapping itself up in tight knots. The figure held on tight, still firing more rounds into the milky-white head.

Straen did not stay to see more. While they fought, he scooped up the bag that had fallen a few feet from himself and ran as fast as he could. The sounds of the shrieking garbage worm chased him along the winding paths of scrap, the haunting cries of its death finally silenced by the sharp staccato crack of a whole clip of plasma bolts searing through its skull. The silence that suddenly surrounded him was thick with fear and panic. Straen fumbled frantically along the path, his heart hammering in his chest.

He slipped around a corner, and up ahead, half buried within the artificial hillside of metal and rust, he saw the decaying hull of a small freighter. The outer layer of metal had been ripped open along the port side, revealing the hollow cargo bay within.

Footsteps behind him grew louder as they neared, and he took his chance. He sprinted across the open ground between him and the ship and dived into a pool of darkness.

...

The minutes felt like hours, and the hours felt like seconds as he crouched down in the shadowy corner of the cargo hold, staring at the opening that had been ripped in the hull, listening for any sounds of approaching danger. His hand tightened around the bag he held against his chest, feeling the reassuring pressure of its contents pressing against his chest.

The rumbling, metallic sounds of the collectors grew quieter as they crawled away through the scrap fields, scooping up piles of debris and dropping them into their crusher bays. Their search light grew smaller, eventually swallowed up by the smog that lingered between the artificial hills. The storm front passed, the thunderclaps fading into silence, leaving only the gentle tapping and hissing of acid rain as the droplets corroded through the rusted metal scattered around the planet.

In the near silence, Straen held his breath.

A deafening boom like the footsteps of a rancor rang through the hull, the ground beneath his feet shuddered violently. Dust and rust rained down from the shattered bulkheads above him as another giant footfall echoed through the dark, the while ship around him shifting a few meters down the slope. The creaking groan of metal filled the air and the ship jarred to a halt. Straen tumbled forwards and felt his head crack as he slammed into the hull. The groaning grew louder, the sound pierced by the shrieking sounds of ripping metal.

The hull around him shuddered and he felt it jerk upwards. The world outside the ripped hull began to move away, spinning around him. He thought it was the impact to his head, but his blood ran cold and his stomach dropped into darkness as realisation dawned upon him. A giant claw was ripping into the hull, tearing through the battered and broken skin of the ship like a talon through flesh. As it gripped, it pulled, and the freighter was torn from the scrap yard slope and dragged unwillingly back into the air. Straen felt the floor begin to tip beneath him, and he slid helplessly towards the opening. He scrambled frantically at the smooth deck of the cargo hold, trying desperately to stop himself. His legs fell out through the hole in the bulkhead, the sudden lack of resistance against his body sending fresh waves of panic flooding through his body. He reached out blindly and he felt his fingers tighten around the jagged edge of the broken hull, the torn metal digging into his soft skin, and pain shooting along his arm. The hull continued to lift higher into the air, the razor sharp edge of the metal ripping into his hand as he gripped it with all his strength, warm blood seeping from the cuts, spreading between his fingers and making it difficult to hold on. His grip was slipping.

The strength in his arm suddenly vanished, and his hand slipped from the broken metal. He fell backwards through the air, tumbling wildly. His arms flailed helplessly as he tried to reach out for anything to stop his fall, but he knew there was nothing. The ground raced up towards him, his flailing arms spinning him around as he fell.

His back slammed hard against the side of the slope beneath him and he rolled down the metal covered hill, the wind knocked from his lungs, his hand and arm wet with blood.

The slope levelled out and he came to a rest on the flat, dusty surface between the piles of scrap. He lay face down, panic and fear causing every muscle in his body to tense. His hand stung where dirt and grit had fouled his wounded palm, and his lungs felt ablaze as the toxic air clung to his throats.

His eyes felt heavy as he struggled to see through the dust and the tears that clung to the edges of his vision. In the orange, rust filled twilight, a shadowy figure approached and knelt down in front of him.

"Wow, you look like you've been bathing on Mustafar," the figure said in a terrifyingly familiar voice. This was the man who had been chasing him. His mind screamed for him to tackle them and make a break for it, but his body would not listen. It could not move. Every inch of his body felt like it was made of stone.

"Please," Straen whispered. "Don't do this."

"I'm afraid I have to," the figure replied. "We offered you the chance to talk this out, but you decided to keep running. I'm a very particular kind of guy. I'll only offer you a way out once. If you don't take it, that's your problem." Straen looked up through watery eyes, and watched as the figure reached down and grabbed hold of him by the tunic.

The figure wore heavy white armour that looked vaguely familiar, and there was a blood red stripe running vertically down the middle. The arm that gripped his clothes glinted in the gloom, and as he finally looked up, he found himself staring into the menacing, red T-shaped visor of a Mandalorian. It all slotted together in his mind and he felt his blood run cold.

"I can pay you," he stammered quickly. "Name your price."

"Sorry, slug," the Mandalorian said simply tilting his head slightly aside. "Nothing personal. Just business." The Mandalorian leaned back slightly and slammed his helmeted head hard against the Ithorian's skull with a deafening crack.

Darkness crept around the edges of Straen's vision, and an icy numbness swept through his muscles. His whole body went limp.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**  
**Family is more than blood**

_YG-4210 freighter "Trail-breaker"_  
_Raxus Prime_

The loading ramp of the old Corellian freighter slammed down onto the dusty surface of Raxus Prime, the curved hull and extended drive section hidden beneath the shadow of the perpetual twilight among the towering piles of scrap. A figure in heavy, white Mandalorian armour stepped out of the darkness into the pool of light that poured out from inside the ships cargo hold and walked casually up the ramp, the limp form of an Ithorian draped across his shoulder, the bag it had been carrying gripped in his left hand. As he reached the top of the ramp, he hit the control panel that was mounted in the wall, and the loading ramp lifted noisily back into place, sealing the ship once more with a resonating thud and a lingering hiss as the seals locked. He shrugged exaggeratedly, and the unconscious alien dropped off his shoulder, falling into a heap on the hard metal floor of the cargo bay.

The Mandalorian walked across the cargo bay, passing a variety of containment pods that lined the walls, and headed towards the control panel that was mounted into the wall beside the doors. As he reached it, he tossed the bag onto a crate near the door and popped the seals on his helmet, the pressurised hiss a reassuring sound as the seal broke, and he placed it on the crate next to the bag. The dim orange light from the overhead illuminators gently washed across his young face. He looked like any other twenty year old, but he was different. He was, in actual fact, barely ten years old, a genetically altered clone of one of the greatest Mandalorian bounty hunters to have ever lived, Jango Fett. He was cursed to wear his face for the rest of his life, but even that came at a price. The Kaminoan scientist that had created him, and the whole of the grand army of the republic, had accelerated his ageing process, and he was forced to live a half life, dying while others passed into mid life. He was born a soldier and a slave, created to serve a republic he had no stake in, and discarded as easily as a used flimsy wrapper.

Taler Galaar, ex-republic commando, RC-1133, had been left for dead and declared KIA - Killed In Action - during the battle of Geonosis. He had survived three days alone on the barren, hostile world before a Mandalorian Bounty hunter had found him there and adopted him as his own son.

He reached out for the control panel to open a channel to the bridge and stopped a few inches from the controls, his eyes flashing down towards his hand. The skin was charred and burnt around his fingertips, and an open wound across the back of his palm was seeping some green fluid, the metallic plate within exposed. It had been three weeks, and he had almost forgotten that everything below his right elbow was a cybernetic armature covered in synthetic flesh. It was a final parting gift from the planet of Geonosis. The fight with the garbage worm had been a little tougher than he had thought.

He flexed his fingers lightly, watching the mechanism within his palm react to the signals from his brain, green fluid pumping out with each movement. The irony wasn't lost on him. He had been created to defend the republic against a droid army, and now, that technology was grafted onto his own skin.

He had been trained to deal with all sorts of situations, but his instructors had never trained them to deal with their own thoughts, especially guilt, regret, confusion, and worst of all, uncertainty. On Kamino, he had always been certain of what his life was for. He was bred to be the best fighting soldier the galaxy had ever seen, and he would serve the Jedi, wise and benevolent generals who were combat and tactical specialist who were worth at least a hundred droids. But the reality of the universe had hit him like a jump through hyperspace without inertial compensators. The Jedi were not the omnipotent beings he thought they would be, and their inadequacy had caused him to loose his brothers on a mission they should not have been used for. The anger he felt bubbled inside him, like a black hole, and as each day passed, it became more and more difficult to ignore it and push it aside.

If he ever saw another Jedi, he would make them pay for what they had done to him and his squad brothers.

Clamping his eyes shut, he inhaled deeply to slow his anger driven pulse, tasting the metallic air of Raxus Prime's scrap fields still lingering against his new armour plates. It was heavier and bulkier than most Mando armour, but it suited him. He was used to heavy armour, and this felt like the best compromise, and the blood red line running vertically down the middle? Well, he just liked the colour.

He felt himself calming, the anger subsiding a little, and as he cleared his mind, he reached out and tapped the controls and heard the gentle click echo from the speaker as the link opened to the bridge.

"I'm back, buir," Taler said, leaning against the bulkhead and tilting his head towards the hidden microphone. Buir, father. It was odd to hear himself say that word, having grown up with no concept of family beyond his squad brothers. And yet, thinking back, he knew it had been something he had missed all his life, even if he had never know it. "Come on down. We have a visitor."

"Copy that," an older voice called out from the speaker. "I'll be right there." An irritated, mechanical screech erupted from the comms unit.

Taler recognised it as the high pitched utterances of the ships idiosyncratic R3 droid. It had obviously taken issue with being left alone on the bridge to do all the work again.

"Just cool your jets, will ya," the voice replied, just as much irritation in his voice as there was in the small droids squeaks. "I'll be back in a few minutes." The channel closed with a silent pop, and Taler scooped up his helmet and crossed the cargo bay, coming to a stop and leaning against a crate near the unconscious form of Straen Lok, who lay rather uncomfortably in a heap in the middle of the cargo bay. He placed his helmet down on the crate beside him and pulled out one of the DC-15s side arm pistols from it's holster on his hip. The grip held loosely in his hand, his metallic fingers wrapped around it gently, he looked down at the black metal and saw the name carved into the handle. 'Jay'.

He remembered scraping his gauntlet blade into the grip, forever etching the name of his dead brothers into their guns. No matter where he went, he would always carry their names with him.

The barrel was dirty, covered in dried blood from his fight with the garbage worm. He tried to brush it off with the tips of his fingers, but it barely shifted. Turning his back on the lifeless body, he removed his glove from his left hand and began stripping down the pistol, years of repetitive training allowing him to dismantle it within seconds. The pieces were all laid out across the crate in front of him, and he reached into one of the pouches on his belt to remove his servicing kit. Taking out the bundle, he unrolled it, the cloth wrapped around cleaning fluid and a soft brush. It was one of the few things he had left from the republic. He had no possessions, only what he had been carrying when they had entered the droid factory on Geonosis. Even though it was a life he had not chosen, it was still who he was, and the few things he still had were a reminder of his brothers. He cherished them.

He picked up the barrel and busied himself cleaning Jay's pistol, longing for the day when he would find a Jedi and avenge his brothers.

...

The corridor to the cargo bay arced around to the left ahead of Kyr'am as he walked slowly from the bridge, the shrieking and spitting mechanical complaints of the R3 droid fading away into silence behind him. His long brown coat billowed lightly as he walked along the corridor, revealing the dark blue plates beneath, and the twin holsters with custom pistols strapped to each thigh.

His chest felt tight, and his breathing was getting a little more laboured. His age was starting to catch up with him. A man in his early fifties, he had barely reached mid life compared to most species. But a lifetime of bounty hunting was starting to take its toll on him. His joints were beginning to rub, his muscles ached more frequently, and as the rush of adrenalin that powered him through the hunt wore off, it was taking longer and longer to regain his strength. It was a good job that he had specialised in long range targets, his sniper rifle hung across his shoulder, always ready.

The frown lines that crossed his forehead were deep, and dark shadows had begun to appear beneath his gun-metal grey eyes. Flecks of grey were creeping into his jet black hair, and the few days growth of hair that clung to his chin was also showing signs of silver.

Half way down the next corridor, he stopped and turned towards the doorway that was recessed into the wall. He paused and inhaled deeply, filling his lungs and composing himself, hiding the tiredness that had crept across his face. Tapping the controls, he watched the metal door slide away into the bulkhead. He stepped through into the cargo bay and instantly saw the limp figure of their Ithorian bounty lying in a heap on the cold metal floor. His heart stopped for a moment, fearing the worst.

"Did you really have to?" He said, sighing heavily, the figure of Taler visible out of the corner of his eye.

"Don't worry," Taler replied, not looking away from his disassemble pistol as he rubbed it gently with a rag. "He's not dead. Just needed a bit of persuading to join our little pleasure cruise is all."

"Pistol grip?"

"Head butt."

"Nice," Kyr'am nodded appreciatively, a grin spreading across his face. "Did you get the bag as well?" Taler didn't reply, but merely turned and nodded towards the crate beside the door. Kyr'am turned around and saw the bag. Scooping it up, he opened the top and looked inside. A small collection of data pads rattled inside the bag, the edges scuffed, but the screens intact. Seems Taler had come through once again.

Taler was making a fine bounty hunter, and an even better son. There seemed that there was nothing he could not do, and even if he did not know something to begin with, he picked it up really quickly.

The smile suddenly vanished from Kyr'am's face as he turned back to face Taler and looked down. He saw the tears and burns in the synthetic flesh across the back of Taler's cybernetic hand, exposing the metal components beneath.

"What happened?" He said, his voice filled with concern as he stepped quickly over to Taler's side. Taler looked up at him confused for a moment, and the followed Kyr'am's eyes to his own hand.

"Oh," Taler said simply. "Nothing really. Just a bit of playful wrestling with a garbage worm." Kyr'am felt suddenly very foolish. He knew Taler could not feel pain in his hand, the mechanical armature nothing more than a tool covered in a lifelike skin. It was merely the impulse of a father, concerned for his son.

"Animals seem to take an instant dislike to you, don't they?" Kyr'am said lightly, deciding to play it down as light hearted banter. "First that Nexu uses you like a chew toy, and then a garbage worn decided to treat you like it's own personal rodeo rider."

"I stayed on longer than most," Taler grinned. Kyr'am looked up at him and laughed, tapping him paternally on the shoulder. He really did have the right stuff to be a Mandalorian. Mandokarla.

A groggy, pained groaning interrupted Kyr'am's thoughts, and as he turned away from Taler and towards the centre of the cargo bay, he watched as the Ithorian began to stir. Having only seen him through the scope of his sniper rifle while he 'encouraged' him to follow the path they had wanted him to take, Kyr'am had not fully appreciated how ugly this particular Ithorian was.

"Maybe we should secure our friend here before he does himself a mischief?" Kyr'am suggested. He turned back to face Taler, and realised that in the few moments he had looked away, Taler had reassembled his pistol and had holstered the weapon. Years of drilling had made him fast, and there was something about it that filled Kyr'am with concern. This boy, and there was no denying it, he was still just a boy, had never been given a childhood. He had been forced to grow up far too quickly, physically because of the accelerated ageing, and mentally. He deserved some down time.

"Good point," Taler replied, wrapping up his weapon servicing kit in the oily rag with exaggerated care and slipping it gently into his belt pouch. "I'll show him to his quarters." Kyr'am watched as the young clone walked across the cargo hold, bent down as he reached the slowly squirming Ithorian, and grab him by the collar of his tunic. He dragging him unceremoniously across the deck before deactivating the force shield on one of the containment pods and tossing the groaning mass inside, the force shield shimmering back into life.

"Guess I'd better get back to the bridge," Kyr'am said. "Before Sparky has another hissing fit and ends up reprogramming the navigational array."

"How long till we rendezvous with the customer?" Taler asked, not looking away from the Ithorian. Kyr'am could see the side of his face, and watched his brow crease. There was something bothering him.

"We'll find out once we're in orbit and I can get a signal through the interference of this scrap ball," Kyr'am replied. Taler nodded slowly and crossed the cargo hold to Kyr'am's side, grabbing his T-visored helmet from the crate beside him.

"I might go and use the fresher's then," Taler said simply. "If that's ok," he added, almost as though he was asking permission from a senior officer. There was almost a hint of the word 'sir' at the end, but he seemed to stop himself before he spoke it aloud. Kyr'am felt a pained stab in his heart. He didn't want Taler to see him as a officer, someone who would give him orders and expect him to follow blindly. They were a family. He put his hand on his shoulder and smiled.

"Of course it is, Tal'ika," he said warmly. "You don't have to ask." Taler smile back at him, and it really did seem genuine this time. "Meet me up on the bridge when you're done."

"Ok, buir," Taler said. Kyr'am watched him leave the cargo bay through the door and disappear down the corridor.  
The speaker mounted in the wall beside the door erupted in a storm of mechanical shrieks and screams as Sparky began complaining with renewed vigour. Kyr'am tapped the controls and activated his end of the link.

"Calm down, before you blow a gasket," he said quickly. "I'm on my way back." He closed the link before the R3 droid had a chance to retaliate, and stepped out of the cargo bay, leaving the still half-comatose Ithorian grumbling in his containment cell.

As he walked along the corridors of the ship towards the bridge, he couldn't help but smile to himself.

Buir. It felt good to be a father.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3**  
**Dark Rendezvous**

_YG-4210 freighter "Trail-breaker"_  
_Raxus Prime orbit_

The water from the fresher was cold against Taler's skin, and he felt it sting as it ran down his cheeks. He inhaled sharply as the shock spread through his body, clamping his eyes shut. He leaned forwards, resting a hand either side of the basin and feeling the water running across his worn face, dripping from his chin. It fell into the basin beneath him, the sound echoing in the small fresher. He opened his eyes slowly and looked down as the ripples crossed the pool of water, reminding him of the waves that used to hammer against the legs of Tipoca city on Kamino.

It felt like a memory that was not his own as it flashed across his mind, the dark, grey, storm filled skies whipping the sea up into a maelstrom. He remembered the flash of lightning as it tore across the high, domed ceilings, and the clap of thunder sounding like the report of distant shells exploding. Many people would have asked how he had know what a an exploding shell sounded like when he was no more than two years old, but his training had started young, and live fire exercises were exactly what they were meant to be, live.

Live fire exercises were as real as they came, and so was the fear that had pulsed through his veins the first time he had been given a blaster and told to run. The fear never left him, he simply learnt how to use it. It focused his mind, made him run faster, allowed him to fight longer and harder than before.

He looked up and saw his face staring back at him from the mirror above the basin. But it was not just his face. It was Jay's face. And Vin's. And Darman's. His squad brothers who had died on Geonosis.

They had been trained to be the best, and they were the best. It wasn't their lack of skill that got them killed. It was the inadequacy of their commanders, the Jedi.

Another surge of anger burst through his calm, and in a moment of uncontrollable rage, he clenched his fist and he lashed out. His right fist slammed into the mirror, the reflective surface shattering, shards falling into the basin, others slicing into the synthetic skin that wrapped around his metallic fingers.

The rage subsided as rapidly as it had appeared, and he felt his whole body shaking with the after effects of adrenalin. He did not know how to deal with these emotions. He had been trained to be the perfect soldier, but no one had prepared him for this.

His eyes shifted from his mutilated reflection and locked onto his cybernetic hand. The skin was torn in a dozen places, and yet he did not feel any pain from it. He knew he could not, because the mechanics of the hand did not work like that, but he felt that he should.  
He drained the basin and wiped his left hand on the towel, stepping out of the fresher into the small cabin that Kyr'am had given him. It was nothing special - a bunk, a work station, a chair and some cupboards to store his stuff - but it was more than he had ever had in his life. It was his, a concept he was still struggling to accept.

Grabbing a small tool kit from his belt that hung across the back of the seat, he sat down at the work station, sweeping aside some of the equipment he had salvaged from his katarn commando-issue armour. The helmet sat at the far left of the work station, the familiar T-visor staring back at him, scuffs and dents revealing the metal beneath the grey paint. The rest of his plates were locked in a crate underneath his bunk.

His new Mandalorian armour was heavier than most, the solid chest plate and wider shoulder bells a deliberate choice on his part, but it was basic. Comms systems, sensors, environmental controls, he had stripped it all out of his old armour and he would eventually transfer all the systems to his new Mando plates. It was not out of sentimentality, it was pragmatic. If he already had the best kit the republic could afford, why should he not use it?

He turned away from the helmet and slowly began to pull the shards of mirror from his hand. They clattered gently against the work top as he let them fall into a neat pile. The upkeep of his new hand was going to be a lot of work. Part of his wanted to just rip the synthetic flesh off there and then and have done with it, but at the back of his mind, he knew he was not ready for that. To see a droid hand permanently grafter to his arm was too much for him to deal with.

He picked up the small canister of synthetic flesh, and sprayed a light coat of it over his fingertips. He watched the skin heal around the metallic fingers, and he wondered if it would work as field dressing on real wounds. He'd have to try it out.

He held his hand up to the light and turned it around in front of his face. It looked like any other human hand.

The twinkling lights outside his cabin view port shined brightly against the inky blackness of space, the dull, rust brown crescent of Raxus Prime visible in the bottom corner. They were in orbit, which meant they would be contacting their customer any time now.

Taler stood up from his chair and grabbed the tan, bantha hide jacket from his bunk. It was the first real luxury he had ever owned, bought with his share of the bounty from the Geonosis job. And as he slipped his arms through the sleeves, the soft leather so new it didn't even creak, he flicked the collar up, stepped out of his cabin and headed towards the bridge.

...

Sparky, the highly excitable, and increasingly temperamental R3 droid rocked from side to side, tweeting loudly as he turned his photo receptor to look up at Kyr'am who was sitting at the navigation console, sparks erupting from the little droids leg joint. The ship had cleared the planets thick layer of interference, and the lights across the communications array had begun to blink with an incoming signal. A few of the sparks from the droids excited movements landed on Kyr'am's sleeve.

"Hey," he yelled in surprise, brushing away the sparks. "Cool your jets, or you'll burn something!"

The droid's photo receptor spun around to stare at the comms station, and Kyr'am followed its gaze.

"Well don't just stand there setting fire to everything," he growled back at the droid. "Answer it."

Sparky made an unmistakably rude sound through his modulator as he swivelled on the spot and linked up with the comms unit.

"You call me that again and I'll fit you with a restraining bolt, you hear me?" Kyr'am said menacingly. Sparky knew he was bluffing, he'd never do that to the little droid. He turned his chair around and faced the holo receiver that was mounted on the main console between the pilot and co-pilot seats. The air above the holo receiver seemed to blur and shudder, and in the blink of an eye, Kyr'am found himself looking back at the tiny figure of a Rodian dressed in a tailored suit. He wasn't sure of the colour as the holo projector gave everything a blue tint, but it seemed very tacky and gaudy. But then, most things did to a Mandalorian.

"I see admin work still pays you well, Myr," Kyr'am said casually, leaning back in his seat, crossing his arms. "Where'd you get that suit? A hutts fresher?" The Rodian scowled at him.

"It's from Naboo, actually," Myr replied, his voice dripping with condescension. "I wouldn't expect a thug like you to admire the finer points of fashion." Kyr'am suppressed a surge of anger. Myr thought he was better than him just because he had a desk job. It always annoyed Kyr'am how most of the galaxy looked down on him and the rest of the Mandalorians because many were bounty hunters and mercenaries, seeing them as nothing more than mindless thugs who killed for money. If only they knew the truth.

"You're right, as always, Myr," Kyr'am replied casually, smiling back at him. "If it's not breaking a big hole in something, I'm just not interested."

Out of the corner of his eye, Kyr'am saw Taler walk through the door and onto the bridge. Kyr'am did not look at him, keeping his gaze fixed on the image of Myr as it hovered above the control console. Taler stopped just inside the doorway and leaned against the doorframe, just out of reach of the holo projectors visual pick up. The Rodian would never know he was there.

"Enough of these niceties," Kyr'am said, continuing as though nothing had changed. "We found what you asked for." Myr's eyes widened a fraction.

"Both of them?" Myr asked casually. His tone was even, but Kyr'am had studied enough targets in his life to know when someone was interested.

"Both of them," he replied. Myr stared back at him for a moment, then tapped the data pad he was holding in his hand. There was an almost inaudible pop as he silenced the microphone at his end of the link, and he turned away from Kyr'am, seemingly to talk with someone who was outside the pick up of his own holo receiver. A few moments passed in silence. Sparky's photo receptor stared up at the hologram. Taler leaning casually against the door frame but his eyes were fixed on a monitor on the far wall showing the Ithorian still slumped in the containment field. And Kyr'am maintained his charade of casual boredom, leaning back in his chair, his arms folded across his armoured chest.

A silent pop broke the silence, and Myr turned back to face them.

"Go to these coordinates," he said, tapping his data pad. Sparky began downloading the coordinates to the navigational computer, plotting their course. "You'll land your vessel and transfer your cargo to a shuttle..."

"Hold on a second pal," Kyr'am interrupted him. "You ain't getting any of your 'cargo' till I got those credits safely in my bank account."

"That's fair enough," Myr said, a little too quickly. "Board the shuttle with the cargo, and we will transfer you to our ship where you will receive your payment." Sparky chirped helpfully, the coordinates locked into the navigational computer.

"Coordinates received. 'Trail-breaker', out," Kyr'am nodded discreetly to the R3 droid, and he watched as the hologram shimmered and disappeared, the signal closing down.

"I don't like it," Taler said quietly, his brow furrowed in concentration. "It sounds like a trap." He was born a soldier, and his brain never switched off. He was calculating the odds, checking for lines of fire, and always thinking of the escape strategy. Kyr'am was happy to say he had felt the same gut reaction. It was the Mando way.

"Well, we'll find out soon enough," he replied. Pulling himself out of the navigation seat, he dropped into the pilots chair and began the final preparations for the jump to light speed. Taler strapped himself into the navigation seat and turned to face the forward view screen. He looked troubled.

A few moment later, Kyr'am pulled the seat restraints over his shoulder, securing himself in and pushed the power levers forward beyond the limiters. A high pitched whine rumbled through the ship, growing louder and higher until it shattered in a deafening boom. The pin points of star light stretched out into eternity, and then streaked past them in the neon blue haze of hyperspace.

...

_Ice moon Elissa-5_  
_Secratis Nebula_  
_Two hours from Raxus Prime_

The landing struts creaked in the low gravity atmosphere as the ship settled down on the surface of the dark moon, the ice cracking beneath the heavy metal feet. The ion drives hum faded away into silence, the outer casing clicking as it cooled in the frozen air. Sheltered in the shadow of the high sided valley, the old Corellian freighter fell silent.

It was bathed in an eerie green light from the nebula, the ice covered peaks that surrounded the canyon like poisonous talons reaching into the black, inky sky. The wind whipped along the valley floor, ice particles reflecting the green light as they brushed across the outside of the ship.

A line of orange light split the hull and cut through the icy air. A orange rectangle of light grew across the surface of the moon as the loading ramp dropped away from the underside of the ship. The hydraulic rams hissed loudly as the metal ramp and the pool of orange light touched on the glacier. Three figures strode down the ramp, out into the Hoth like atmosphere, the taller figure in the middle with his wrists bound, the anonymous T-visors of Mandalorian helmets hiding the faces of the other two.

Kyr'am stepped out from beneath the hull of the ship and stopped, Taler standing behind the Ithorian with his DC-15s pressed hard against his spine, encouraging him onwards. Straen Lok shivered in the sub zero temperatures, whimpering quietly, a low rumble growing beneath the howling wind.

A beam of light changed night to day, engulfing the darkness in a blinding white haze. Kyr'am looked up directly into the light, his visor polarising rapidly to stop the glow. The rumbling of a shuttle filled the air around them and they stood watching as the small vessel dropped down onto the ice plateau, the engines still roaring loudly. A hatch opened near the front of ship, and a silhouetted figure appeared. Kyr'am turned to look up at the cockpit of his beloved ship, and through the blizzard he could see the grey and yellow dome of the astromech droid.

"Sparky," Kyr'am said into the microphone of his helmet. "Our lift is here. We'll be back soon. Make sure you watch the static." The droid tweeted an affirmative in response. Kyr'am touched his fingers to his helmet and began to walk through the snow towards the shuttle.

"I still don't like this you know," Taler's voice said in his ear.

"I know, son," Kyr'am replied. The three of them boarded the shuttle and disappeared into the black sky.


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 4**  
**Double-crossed**

_Polaris J370 civilian cruiser "Wrath of Telos"_  
_Hydra Corp vessel_  
_Three hours from Raxus Prime_

Taler felt the floor of the small shuttle shudder as it touched down inside the landing bay of the cruiser, the landing struts creaking silently as they supported the weight of the small transport. As he stood near the rear of the shuttle's main seating area, leaning against the bulkhead with his arms folded in a casual way, he was far from relaxed. The three hundred and sixty degree sensors of the helmet meant he could watch everywhere at once, and not have people realise where he was looking. He kept his eyes locked on the door to the cockpit.

Apart from when they had stepped aboard the shuttle, they had been left alone in the seating area, their 'hosts' choosing to remain separate from them. But Taler did not fool himself by thinking they were not being watched.

A soft hiss gently broke the silence of the shuttle interior and Taler watched as the airtight door on the port side opened in a silent invitation to leave. Kyr'am, who had been sat near the door, eased himself out of his chair, looking to all the world like an aging bounty hunter who was beginning to slow and show the signs if his age. Taler knew this was all an act, and that Kyr'am could still move as fast now as he could in his twenties. As he stepped towards the door, he turned around to look at Taler and signalled for him to follow.

Straen Lok whimpered in his seat, but Taler took no notice, grabbing him by the tunic and hauling him to his feet before jabbing him in the spine with his DC-15s side arm. The Ithorian stumbled forwards towards the door, and followed Kyr'am down the ramp to the landing bay floor.

The landing bay was big enough for three small shuttles, support beams running the entire width of the bay roof. It didn't have much in the way of design or style. It was built for function, and that was how it looked - industrial and boxy. At one end of the bay was a row of three doors. Taler guessed that the central doors were to the turbo lift. At the other end, opposite the doors, was the bay opening.

It glowed blue as the force field stretched across the gap, a flimsy barrier between life and death. The green nebula within which the ship was hidden floated just beyond.

Scattered around the edges of the landing bay, neatly placed as though they belonged there, were unmarked crates, all of different sizes. Something about them seemed off, and Taler made a mental note to avoid them.

At the base of the ramp, a blue protocol droid stood waiting patiently, his glowing photo receptors always giving them the look of mild surprise.

"Greetings," it said in its mechanical, accent less voice. "I am E-4G9. You are expected in the forward viewing gallery. Please follow me." The droid did not even wait for an acknowledgement before turning around and shuffling across the deck towards the turbo lift doors. Taler saw Kyr'am following him, and encouraged Straen to do likewise.

The doors to the turbo lift closed before them and they shot upwards through the ship towards their expectant client.

When the doors finally opened again, the droid shuffled out of the turbolift and plodded away down the corridor, Kyr'am following along behind him, his long brown coat billowing lightly as he walked, the bag that Straen had been carrying hanging loosely from his hand. Taler grabbed hold of the restraints that held the Ithorian's hands behind his back and steered him out of the lift after the droid. He could see the Ithorian's eyes staring down at the bag with a mix of longing and hatred. Whatever was in the bag was valuable enough for him to have stolen it, but now it seemed he was regretting his actions.

The droid finally came to a stop beside a set of heavy, engraved doors and Taler watched as it tapped the panel set into the frame. It popped lightly as the intercom was activated, and then a familiar voice spoke from the hidden speakers.

"What is it?" Myr's voice said, almost impatiently. The droid was unable to feel offence by the tone of his masters voice, and merely leaned forwards and spoke into the comm unit.

"The bounty hunters are here," he said.

"Good," Myr replied. "Send them in." The intercom popped again as the link shut down and the droid held out his hand towards the doors as they opened.

"Please," he said bowing slightly. Kyr'am walked through the open doors and Taler followed. The doors sealed behind them and they were plunged into a dark world of extravagance and opulence that made Taler instantly feel defensive. Everything was rich colours, rare fabrics, and expensive tastes. Carved walls flowed elegantly into the ceiling, paintings hung from the walls, and around the room, raised on polished stone plinths, were sculptures and statues from a dozen different worlds. The wall mounted lights were dimmed and the eerie green glow of the nebula beyond the view screen bathed everything in its dappled light. Taler knew he did not belong in this this kind of world.

At the end of the room, a figure stood in front of the view screen. His silhouette was Rodian, and the cut of the suit was instantly recognisable as the one they had seen on the holo belonging to Myr. But Taler could also see another figure sat in a high backed chair, the chair turned away from them, facing the view screen.

"Nice place you got here," Kyr'am said dismissively, making a show of looking around the room as though admiring the works of art that dressed the room. "Bit dark. Saving on your energy bills?"

"Very amusing," Myr retorted, irritation and annoyance in his voice. "Hand over the item."

"Not so fast, bug-eyes," Kyr'am said lightly, though the lighter his tone, the more threatening he became. "Aren't you going to introduce us?"

"That won't be necessary," Myr replied acidly.

"Oh, but I think it will," Kyr'am said casually. Taler saw his hand tighten around the strap of the bag that still hung by his side. Slowly, Taler let his free hand drop to his side and hover above his other sidearm. "I'm done talking to the wamprat."

"How dare you speak to me like that..." Myr began, outrage filling his voice, but Kyr'am cut him off.

"I don't deal with middle men when the client is sat in front of me," Kyr'am growled. "Especially not snivelling cowards like you. I got some business that needs concluding and you're getting in my way. Why don't you run along and leave the real work to creatures with an IQ higher than a Mynok?"

"One more word and I'll..." The Rodian postured, but again his words were cut short. This time however, it was not Kyr'am. A deep, booming voice spoke out from the high-backed chair, and it silenced the green skinned assistant.

"That's enough, Myr," the voice said slowly. "Leave us." Myr looked back at the chair for a moment, almost as though he was going to argue. But he decided better than to question his master. He bowed slowly, glared at Kyr'am, and left through the door.

As the darkness reasserted itself on the room, and the silence grew thick with anticipation, the figure in the chair turned to face them. He rose from his seat, and Taler saw his silhouette against the green glow of the gaseous nebula. Straen Lok began to whimper audibly in front of him. The figure tilted his head and as he spoke, Taler could hear the grin crossing his face.

"Welcome back, Straen," he said. "I believe you have something that belongs to me."

...

Kyr'am watched as the figure turned away from them and crossed the room towards a desk, all four of his hands clasped behind his back. Even in the gloom, the outline was unmistakable. The forehead ridges, the sharp brows, the rounded chin, the bulky chest and heavy footfalls.

He was a Besalisk. Kyr'am had only seen a few of his kind around the galaxy, and they all had the same intimidating look about them. They towered over most species, and their broad shoulders gave them the appearance of a small Rancor, only with an extra set of arms.

As he reached the desk, he unclasped two of his hands and tapped the controls, the lights around the room brightening to a warm orange glow and the view screen polarising, blanking out the nebula beyond.

"Thank you for bringing him back to us," the figure said softly, the deepness of his voice like a predators growl in the silence of the viewing room. "My name is Prazon Kexx, and I am the regional head of Hydra Corp. Maybe you've heard of us?" The Besalisk grinned, his eyes twinkling with malice. Kyr'am felt the familiar squirming in the pit of his stomach when his gut was trying to warn him that the situation was getting out of hand.

"An underworld organization of slime balls, thugs and bantha fodder, masquerading as a legitimate company to mask their otherwise underhanded and often highly illegal activities? Can't say I've ever heard of you," Kyr'am said evenly, hiding his unease behind the faceless helmet of a Mandalorian mercenary. It was amazing how many different ways the armour could save his life, not just against blasters and blade.

Prazon Kexx grin vanished from his face for a moment, and he looked back at Kyr'am, all four hands now clasped behind his back again. For a moment he stared back at Kyr'am from underneath heavy eyebrows, Taler and the whimpering Ithorian suddenly forgotten. But just as suddenly his smile reappeared and he laughed.

"We have been so worried about our friend, Mr Lok," he continued, turning his eyes to the restrained Ithorian. "He disappeared so suddenly we were unable to discuss his... Severance package."

"You must have been really concerned," Kyr'am replied, not buying the false kindness for a moment. "That was quite a bounty you had out on him."

"Less a bounty, more an incentive for his safe return," Prazon retorted gently. Kyr'am loved the world of euphemisms. It allowed criminal thugs like Prazon to take out anyone who stood in their way and make it all seem above board and legal. It was at times like this that Kyr'am was happy the whole universe saw him as nothing but an uncultured and lawless thug. It meant he could say things as they were.

"Well he's back now," Kyr'am said. "So where's this 'incentive'?"

"Ah yes," Prazon's grin widened. Kyr'am didn't like that at all. "My assistant, Myr, will sort out your fee. But first I must ask to see the contents of that bag," he continued, his eyes dropping to the bag that still hung loosely from Kyr'am's hand. Kyr'am tossed the bag towards him, his aim as accurate without a gun as it was through the sight of a rifle. Prazon caught the bag and casually reached inside, still smiling politely though his eyes flared with anticipation. He pulled out a small holo projector, tossing the bag aside, and activated the device.

The air above the palm of his hand was suddenly filled with lines and lines of shimmering blue writing, pages and pages of numbers and figures and plan drawings hovering in front of the Besalisk's face.

"It's all here," he growled happily.

"Well, I'm happy for you," Kyr'am said, adding just a hint of bored annoyance to his voice to imply that he did not care. "Now, about our credits?" Prazon looked straight through the floating data at Kyr'am and his eyes flashed once more with the malice he had seen before, and he knew the situation was rapidly turning to poodoo.

"Yes," Prazon said slowly, turning back to his desk and tapping another one of the buttons that were recessed into the top surface. "I'm afraid that there might be a small issue with that," but there was no hint of remorse in his voice.

"Oh, really?" Kyr'am said slowly, his voice dropping to an almost whisper. "And what 'small issue' would that be?" Prazon's smile seemed to be widening by the moment, and bearing even more of his razor sharp teeth.

"Well, you see, the information contained on this small data device is worth a lot of credits to certain parties who would like to see me and my associates shut down," he said logically. "And I'm sure you can understand that I would rather that didn't happen. Unfortunately for you, I have no way of knowing whether you have seen this information, or even copied it. And so it falls to me to tie up any and all loose ends."

"Don't suppose it would make a difference if I gave you my word," Kyr'am replied.

"The word of a Mando thug is worth less to me than an Arkanian flit-nat," Prezon grinned. "So I'm afraid you are all surplus to requirements."

"Now you've gone and hurt my feelings," Kyr'am said with mock sorrow. "And I'd promised my son here a trip to Rishi with our reward. He'll be so upset. Won't you, Tal'ika?" Taler played his part well, his hand gripping his second side arm and the sound of the weapon priming itself echoing through the room.

Kyr'am watched as the Besalisk crossed the viewing room towards the door, and as he stood beside it, the door opened and a dozen heavily armed Nikto and Weequay rushed in, forming a neat line in front of their boss.

"It's been a pleasure doing business with you 'gentlemen'," Prazon laughed. "Our contract is now terminated. My associates will see to your 'severance pay'." He turned to the Nikto nearest him, his grin suddenly disappearing. "Kill them."

A dozen blasters were suddenly torn from their holsters and the air was filled with white hot plasma bolts.

...

Taler felt the first volley of shots fizz through the air past his helmet, scorching the paint on his shoulder plate as he threw himself onto the floor. Instinctively, he had drawn his second side arm and as he rolled up behind the nearest statue, he pressed his back hard up against it. He glanced to his right and saw Kyr'am standing behind another of the statues, his pistol drawn and aimed at the group of would be executioners. Kyr'am leapt back behind the statue as four plasma bolts slammed into the figure, the chest erupting into a cloud of dust. Before the dust had even settles, Kyr'am sprinted to the next statue, his pistol spewing out more bolts towards the group of thugs.

A dull thud echoed through the sounds of battle and Taler snapped his head around to look at where, moments before, he had been standing. Straen Lok's broken body lay in a crumpled heap on the floor of the viewing room, blood bubbling up from blaster wounds across his chest and neck, the edges scorched and burnt. He stared blankly up at the ceiling, the fear he had felt in his final moments forever etched into his eyes. Taler wanted to look away, a wave of nausea flooding his veins, but he could not. He had seen death so many times in his life, but seeing the Ithorian lying motionless on the floor, his hands still bound behind his back, it seemed too much for him. Death in combat was noble. Death while bound was sickeningly wrong.

Taler tore his eyes away, inhaling deeply to fight the revulsion that bubbled up inside him. He tightened his grip on his sidearms and spun around from behind the statue, squeezing the triggers. The DC-15s's exploded with plasma bolts, and they ripped through the shoulder of the nearest Nikto. It screamed in pain and fell to the floor, writhing as blood poured from its shattered shoulder.

Two other bodies lay on the floor among the group, testament to Kyr'am's accuracy. But they were still outnumbered. The largest Weequay turned towards him and aimed his wide-barrelled blaster at his head. Taler dived across the deck and slid behind another statue as the first statue shattered into a hundred pieces of shrapnel.

"Told you this was a bad idea," Taler said through gritted teeth into his comlink.

"I didn't disagree with you, son," Kyr'am's voice replied, amplified in his ear.

"So what's the plan?" Taler asked, ducking around the edge of his temporary cover.

"Keep shooting and head for the door," Kyr'am said casually, another volley of plasma bolts searing through the air and forcing Taler to duck back behind the statue.

"Good plan," Taler replied.

A small metallic orb bounced across the deck beside him, and as he turned to look, his eyes widened and he felt his blood turn to ice.

"Oh shab," he hissed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Part 5**  
**Falling into darkness**

_Polaris J370 civilian cruiser "Wrath of Telos"_  
_Hydra Corp vessel_  
_Three hours from Raxus Prime_

The grenade exploded in a blinding ball of flames, the shock wave slamming hard into Taler's chest as he was picked up by the force of the blast and thrown across the room. He crashed into the wall and fell the floor, bits of shattered statue and burning artwork raining down around him. The sound was deafening as it reverberated around the closed viewing gallery, and even inside the safety of his sound-proofed helmet, his ears were ringing.

Smoke billowed across the room, the remaining statues like shadows, blurred in the chaos. A black star of soot and scorch marks had been seared across his white chest plate, and the world spun quickly around him. He clamped his eyes shut for a moment, inhaling deeply to steady the world.

"Taler? Tal'ika, are you there? Can you hear me?" Kyr'am's voice crackled through the static filled silence. Taler's eyes shot open, blurring wildly as he tried to focus on the visor as it flickered, struggling to remain alive as the EMP from the grenade ripped through his suits systems. His armour was hardened against EMP attacks, but even hardened armour wasn't fool proof at point blank.

The HUD flickered and then pulsed brightly as it power flowed through his suit again, and Taler felt his eyes focus and the world steadied itself around him.

"Tal'ika," Kyr'am cried again, concern bubbling up through his voice. "Answer me!"

"I'm here," Taler whispered as he struggled onto his side, his voice sounding like it was not his own. His hands reached out through the smoke and he felt something press against his palm. He closed his fingers around the grip of his sidearms and dragged himself up against the wall, tucking himself against the ornate ceiling supports. The silence was suddenly shattered as plasma bolts tore through the smoke and slammed into the deck only inches from where his hands had been.

"We need to get out of here now," Kyr'am said bluntly, his concerns seemingly cast aside by hearing Taler's voice and the sudden restart of blasterfire.

"No argument here," Taler said. The smoke was starting to clear, seeping away through the concealed vents in the ceiling, and Taler looked over towards the group of Nikto and Weequay, the door out into the corridor fading into view beyond them. "I can see the doors."

"Sitrep," Kyr'am's said evenly. He was still hidden by the smoke somewhere on the far side of the room, streams of highly charged energy searing through the smoke between them.

Through the smoke, Taler could see the bodies of the three that had fallen before the explosion, and scattered among them were two others, their coughs and pained grunts of pain telling him that they had been severely winded by the force of the explosion. That left a total of seven still standing. With a quick blink towards the upper corner of his visor, Taler activated his heat scope, a digitised line wiping down in front of his eyes and everything becoming shades of green, red and blue.

The smoke disappeared as the sensors detected heat, and seven blinding white figures with crimson halos appeared leaning out from behind the other statues. One leaned out further and Taler ducked back sharply as three blaster bolts narrowly missed his head.

"Seven live targets, two down, three dead," Taler said quickly, checking the charge levels on his DC-15s'.

Anger flooded his body as he looked down at his brothers weapon and saw that it was broken. The lights flickered on the pistol's display, a tear near the back of the barrel spitting sparks. The grenade had damaged it. He holstered both pistols and reached behind him, unclipping the DC-17m from his belt and feeling the familiar grip of the multi-purpose assault rifle pressing against his palms.

"Three targets to the right of the door, four to the left," he continued, his voice still as even as before. His training had taken over, and his feelings were cast aside. The anger would have to wait until they were safe again.

"Flash bang," Kyr'am said.

"Copy that," Taler replied, bracing the rifle against his shoulder, ready to duck around the edge of the column.

"Three, two, one,... Now!" The room was consumed by a blinding ball of light, and a deafening rush of sound filled the air around them, but Taler was ready for it. In the confusion, he jumped to his feet and advanced on the enemy, his rifle raised and his finger against the trigger. He watching them stagger out from behind their cover, their eyes watering and their hands cupped over their ears.

He lined up the sight with the first and slotted a plasma round between his eyes. Before the first had even hit the floor, he had turned and shot another through the chest. The third was recovering fast, and Taler spun around, the plasma bolt slicing through the Weequay's neck. Taler was now flanking the remaining four and as he circled around the column, he squeezed the trigger and three more fell to the floor, plasma scorched wounds across their bodies.

The last was nowhere to be seen, and Taler eased his way through the smoke, just as he had in the kill-house back on Kamino. A cry of anger erupted from behind him, and he spun around just in time to see the last Nikto running towards him, a vibroblade held high above it's head.

A streak of white tore through the smoke and slammed into the Nikto's temple. The back of his head erupted in a cloud of red, and he fell to the floor.

Taler was still looking down at the dead body when Kyr'am stepped through the smoke beside him, his side arm still held in his hand.

"Shabuir," he hissed, glaring down at the Nikto as though it was something unpleasant that was stuck to the bottom of his boot.

"All targets down," Taler said simply.

"I'm sure Prazon will have a lot more waiting for us," Kyr'am grimaced.

"Well, let's not give him time to get organised then," Taler replied. He tapped his father on his shoulder, and nodded towards the doors.

...

At every turn, more thugs stood in their way, blasters and rifles spewing bolt after bolt of searing hot plasma towards them. Kyr'am found the way ahead blocked for what felt like the hundredth time, time itself slowing around him as his brain focused on identifying the most imminent threat and staying alive.

The air around him erupted in streams of red light as he dodged another volley of blaster fire, Taler taking three direct blows to the chest without even flinching and mowing down their opponents with a single automatic burst from his rifle.

"You're like a tank, Tal'ika," Kyr'am exclaimed, looking up at the abandoned clone who had become his son with a mix of awe and concern.

"Big, thick and scary?" Taler asked. Kyr'am could hear the grin in his words.

"I was thinking more like 'unrelenting, solid, and armed to the teeth,'" Kyr'am replied. "But one day there will be one shot too many, and then, even your armour won't be enough to stop them all..."

"Let's leave that until we're safely back on the Trail-breaker," Taler cut across, his head snapping to look back the way they had come as the sounds of their pursuers grew louder. "We need to get off this deck and back to the hangar bay."

"I've got a better idea," Kyr'am said sharply. He looked around and his eyes locked on a door a few meters away from them. "In here, quick." Both men ran as fast as they could, and vanished through the doors.

They stumbled into the darkness of the cargo hold the doors hissing shut behind them.

"We won't have much time," Kyr'am said, looking across the walls of the room as though searching for something. "They'll probably have surveillance cams all over the ship and they now know we're in here."

"So how does that help us?" Taler asked, a hint of irritation in his voice. Kyr'am could understand his anger. Taler had been a soldier all his life, and now, an old man had led him into a room with only one way out. But they needed something in this room. Kyr'am was sure they could fight their way out if they had to.

"It doesn't," Kyr'am replied truthfully. "But this will." He darted across the cargo bay and shoved some of the crates out of the way to uncover a control panel mounted in the wall. "Cover the door, they'll be here soon. I just need a few minutes."

Taler ran back towards the door and crouched down beside some crates while Kyr'am reached into his belt and pulled out a small data spike. He slipped it into the droid control socked and began accessing the ships computers. Page after page of information flickered rapidly passed his visor, and just as abruptly, it stopped. The controls on the screen lit up and he tapped at them quickly, hacking through the ships systems like a knife through flesh.

An ear splitting crack burst from his comms unit in his helmet and was followed by a staccato of static.

"What did you do?" Taler yelled.

"Doesn't matter," Kyr'am replied quickly. "We have to leave. Now." He ejected the data spike and slipped it back into his pocket as he turned around and ran back towards the doors.

"Where are we going?" Taler asked.

"There are escape pods further along this deck," Kyr'am said simply, as though it was the obvious answer. "If we can get there before this bunch of shabla scum, we're home free."

"If you say so," Taler replied, a hint of uncertainty creeping into his voice.

"Trust me, son," Kyr'am grinned. They braced themselves either side of the doors, rifle and pistols drawn, and as Kyr'am hit the controls with the grip of his side arm, they darted out into the corridor and into a wall of sound, and light, and blaster fire.

...

Taler slammed his shoulder into the stomach of the last Weequay as it stood blocking the corridor, his fellow defenders lying in various states of health across the floor. The Weequay lifted off his feet as Taler wrapped his arms around his middle and crashed onto the floor, his spine cracking audibly. The Weequay let out a pained shriek, but was silenced instantly as Taler ejected his gauntlet vibroblade and punch it through his throat.

Kyr'am sprinted passed him, leaping over the other bleeding bodies and racing down the corridor towards the escape pods. Taler withdrew his gauntlet blade and leapt to his feet, droplets of blood splashing from his wrist as he ran. Up ahead, Kyr'am had already skidded to a stop opposite the last of the escape pods, having completely ignored the ones closest to him and was sliding the data spike into the droid controls once more. Taler was on the verge of asking him why he hadn't gone for the nearest pod, but he was certain he had his reasons.

"Now what?" Taler asked, slightly impatiently, running up to stand beside him.

"Give me a few seconds," Kyr'am muttered, tapping at the controls. Taler looked back over his shoulder as the sounds of heavy footsteps came running towards them.

"We may not have that much time," he said quickly.

"Nearly there," Kyr'am hissed, his fingers floating almost like a blur across the control pad.

The sounds grew louder and Taler's fingers tightened around his rifle.

"Anytime now, would be good," Taler growled through gritted teeth.

The barrel of a pistol appeared around the corner of the corridor as the control pad beeped beside him.

"Got it," Kyr'am yelled. A siren blared into life, filling the corridor with a searing, painful screech, as the light in the ceiling became red. There was a loud, deafening boom as the escape pods were launched and the deck beneath Taler's feet shuddered. An earth-shattering hiss erupted beside him, and just as their pursuers rounded the corner, Kyr'am leapt towards Taler, and they both tumbled through the airlock.

...

_YG-4210 freighter "Trail-breaker"_  
_Secratis Nebula_

"You sure they won't come looking for us here?" Taler whispered. Kyr'am turned around in the pilots seat and gave him a warm, fatherly smile.

"They don't even know we're alive, son," Kyr'am said happily. "They saw us jump in the escape pods. They saw the escape pods jettison. And then they blasted every single one into a million pieces of shrapnel. As far as they're concerned, we're nothing but interstellar dust."

"Good job our armour is rated in full vacuum then," Taler said. He still remembered being thrown from the ship mere seconds after the pod had been jettisoned, and finding himself floating in the cold void of space. The guns on the Polaris cruiser had all tracked the pods, and they had vaporized every single one of them. "Could you warn me next time though?"

"Where's the fun in that," Kyr'am grinned. Sparky, the eccentric astromech droid, squealed happily between them, a few stray sparks flying from the joint in his leg. Taler watched as Kyr'am leaned down and patted the robot's domed head as though it were some loyal pet. "Yes, you did good too," he said softly.

"How did he know where to find us?" Taler asked suspiciously.

"Remember that loud burst of static that nearly deafened you?" Kyr'am began.

"Vividly," Taler interrupted, rubbing his ear with the palm of his hand for emphasis.

"Well that was a tracking pulse," Kyr'am explained. "I told Sparky to 'watch the static,' which meant he kept an eye on all background comms chatter. That burst of static pinpointed our location."

"Nice," Taler said, mildly impressed.

"I got a load more tricks like that," Kyr'am laughed. "Want me to teach you some? Never know when they might come in handy. Might even save your life one day."

"Maybe later," Taler said, an uncomfortable feeling bubbling up inside his stomach as he looked up at the monitor showing the empty cargo hold.

"If Prazon Kexx thinks we're dead, it will work in our favour," Kyr'am said quietly, his eyes suddenly becoming cold and grey. "Because I intend to track him down and slit his throat." Taler could understand the anger that was coursing through Kyr'am's veins, but there was something else that was bothering him. He thought quickly for an excuse to leave.

"I'm going to use the fresher," he said casually.

"Ok, Tal'ika," Kyr'am said softly, his face becoming warm again. Taler turned away from his two companions and headed towards the door but Kyr'am called after him. "You did good today, son." The words stopped Taler in his tracks. He glanced over his shoulder and flashed him what he hoped was a warm smile. He quickly left the cockpit, walking briskly through the ship and almost jumping into his cabin, willing the door to close as fast as it could.

In the solitude of his cabin, he pressed his back against the door and let himself slide down until he was sat on the floor, his knees pressed up against his chest. The bloodied body of Straen Lok flashed through his mind and he felt sick.

He wished he could understand why it had affected him so much. If the bounty would have specified 'dead,' they he would have put a blaster bolt between the Ithorian's eyes himself. But to see him bound and whimpering moments before being caught in the crossfire, and then falling lifeless to the floor, had turned his stomach. The bitter taste of bile lingered in his mouth.

Something caught the light near the work station, and as Taler looked up, he saw his holsters hanging from the chair. The DC-15s' glinted in the soft light of his cabin. Hauling himself up from the floor, he crossed the room and drew one of the pistols, his brothers name still etched into the handle. He saw the exposed workings and the dented trigger guard and felt ashamed.

Drawing the second pistol, he laid them both down on the work station and began to dis-assemble them, breaking them down into their component parts.

As the ship powered up and lurched into hyperspace, Taler set to work modifying his brothers sidearms. Next time he used them, there would be no way anything could stop him.


End file.
